


Sand and Scars

by tmariea (OccasionalArtist)



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: (because when do I not?), Cameos by: Edna Lailah Rose and Zaveid, Established Relationship, Fluff, It's pure fluff and cheese I won't claim otherwise, M/M, Massage, No Plot/Plotless, Scars, They're just taking care of each other, Tickle Fights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 06:00:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11307186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionalArtist/pseuds/tmariea
Summary: Sorey has a whole collection of scars from fighting hellions, and, as scars do, they itch.  But he's lucky enough to have Mikleo to help.





	Sand and Scars

**Author's Note:**

> So, I have the headcanon that seraphic healing isn't perfect - yes, it can repair massive amounts of damage, but it isn't like it just makes the injury disappear into thin air. Hence, scars. And Sorey, being himself, has an absolute ton of them.
> 
> The beginning of this is sketchy and a bit rushed, forgive me.

“Okay, someone please remind me why we’re trekking through this godforsaken place again?”  Rose said with a scowl, and wiped her brow.  The party was half a day out into Zaphgott Moor, and starting to feel the effects of desert travel.  All except for Lailah, who was absolutely loving the heat.

“Oh, you know, Lohgrin, Lords of the Land, mutant hellions, and other things of the ‘stupid task variety.” Edna said.  She, at least, looked somewhat cool under the shade of her umbrella.  But she had been grumbling on and off about some personal vendetta against the concept of sand, so no one was surprised at her annoyance.

Sorey frowned at her flippant tone about their duties, but he supposed he couldn’t blame anyone their complaints.  As far as himself, he had decided that the Moor was fascinating, with such interesting geographical features, and new plants and animals to examine.  The caveat, of course, was the dry air and hot sun, which made Sorey feel as if every drop of water was being sucked from his skin.  He hadn’t expected how it would feel as if it was stretched too tightly across his muscles and bones.

He sighed, and fished out a water skin to pass to Rose.  “The sooner we get all of that done, the sooner we’ll be on our way.”  And truthfully, he wouldn’t mind that either.  Along with the stretch and pull of his skin came the itching.  Sorey peeled his glove halfway up his hand and pushed his sleeve up a bit to expose a scar, one of many he’d collected from his time fighting hellions.  Normally, the skin was raised and white, but at the moment, it was red and angry.  He dug his nails into it, which only made it more angry-looking, and hardly helped with the itch.

Sorey should have expected Mikleo to notice right away.  There was hardly a thing that got past his sharp eyes.  “Stop that,” he whispered, low enough that the others wouldn’t hear.  His hand took Sorey’s scratching one, and gently drew it away.  “You know it will just make things worse.

“Mikleo,” Sorey whined.  He knew he was whining, and he knew exactly the kind of scowl he would receive for it.  But there was a scar on his side starting to itch now, and it wanted, no _demanded_ to be scratched.  As covertly as he possibly could, which he knew wasn’t very covert at all, he snuck his other hand around to meet that demand.

He was presented with an unimpressed stare.  Mikleo held his gaze for a moment more before sighing and asking, “Can you last a few more hours, until we make camp for the night?”

“Maybe?  Can’t I use some ointment now?”

"Do you really want everyone else watching while I rub you down with ointment?”

“Just _what_ are you rubbing onto Sheps?” Asked Zaveid from behind them; neither had heard him come up.  Sorey suspected he’d been listening on the wind, waiting for the worst possible moment to insert himself into the conversation.

Mikleo squeaked in surprise and jumped a step away from Sorey.  One hand flew up to his face to cover his mouth and burning cheeks.  “A-absolutely nothing!”

“Sure didn’t sound like nothing to me,” Zaveid said.  “Didn’t know you two were into that kind of stuff.”

“It is nothing,” Mikleo insisted, “and we are into no kinds of stuff!”

“Sure, whatever you say, Squeakleo,” Edna added.

“SQUEAKLEO?”  The pitch of his voice was doing nothing to help with this nickname.  Sorey figured it wouldn’t be appreciated if he pointed it out.  Instead, he was left to hold up placating hands and set to work convincing the two parties to leave each other be.  Lailah and Rose helped a bit, but mostly they were too busy hiding their giggles, much to Mikleo’s displeasure.

Everyone simmered down eventually, and Sorey was pleased to discover that the itching hadn’t bothered him quite so badly while he was distracted.  The rest of the day he spent any free seconds not devoted to fighting hellions by launching into enthusiastic discussions with Mikleo on every rock formation they found, and generally looking for ways to occupy himself.  Setting up camp in the evening was good for that, too, as well as starting the fire.

As soon as they sat down for dinner, and Sorey had less on his mind, the itching was back in full force.  He felt bad; he knew his squirming was annoying for everyone else, and did discredit to the lovely food Mikleo and Lailah had prepared for them.  He finished quickly, hardly paying attention to what he put in his mouth, and made a note to apologize for that later.  As soon as he was done, he looked over at Mikleo with pleading eyes.

Mikleo sighed and set aside his own plate.  “Can the rest of you manage the cleanup?  We’re turning in.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Rose said. 

Sorey ignored Zaveid’s two cents on the matter, which was unsurprisingly crude, and headed for their shared tent.

Inside, they had spread a blanket on the ground, to prevent sand from getting into everything.  It probably would get into everything by morning anyway, but for now it was working alright.  Sorey pulled off his boots and set them outside the flaps, and ducked inside on bare feet.  Mikleo pulled off his own shoes and followed, before buttoning the flap behind him.

“Do you know where we’ve been keeping our healing kit?” he asked, crossing to where the bags had taken up residence in a corner.

“The big one on the left, I think,” Sorey replied.  His voice was half-muffled by his shirt, which he was in the process of pulling over his head.  The Shepherd’s cloak had been removed and carefully folded away into their baggage as soon as they started setting up camp.  His shirts he cared about less; these were discarded in a pile next to him, followed quickly by his pants.  By the time Mikleo turned back with the jar of salve, he was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the blanket in nothing but his boxers.

For his part, Mikleo just sighed and said, “Are you really going to just leave your clothes on the ground like that?”

“I will get them later.  Just please help me, Mikleo, I’m dying.”

“That sounds a bit overdramatic.”

Even as they spoke, Sorey felt one of the scars between his shoulder blades, which he knew he couldn’t properly reach, flaring up.  He tried to twist his hand to it anyway, fingers left just short and his face contorted in discomfort.  He was half a second away from itching himself against the tent poles like a bear.  “If I have to beg, I will beg, I am not above it.”

Mikleo sighed, and the corners of his mouth twitched up a smile that was half-fond, half-amused.  “Fine, I’ll be nice,” he said, and picked his way around the blanket to settle behind Sorey.  “Lay down on your stomach.”

Sorey complied.

When the first cool, salve-coated fingers touched his skin, he thought he would just about melt in relief.  As it was, he gave a heavy sigh.  “Mikleo, I love you,” he said.

“I feel like you would say that to anyone would consent to rubbing salve on your back right now.”

“Perhaps.”

Mikleo’s wonderful hands paused in their work and then moved away from his skin.  “Well, looks like that’s done, then,” he said, his voice a mask of cheer laid over the top of a heavy dose of teasing.”

“Wait, wait,” Sorey backtracked.  “I didn’t mean it!  You’re my one and only love.  Please, please don’t stop.”

“If you put it like that…”  Then Mikleo’s fingers brushed along his back again, first smearing each scar with ointment, and then carefully massaging at the raised tissue.  While today the itching was the biggest issue, other nights the scars would twinge and ache, and he’d need Mikleo’s help then, too.

Normally, the process was enough to turn Sorey into a puddle of goo, but tonight, the relaxation wasn’t coming as easily.  He shifted his hands before his face and looked at them in the flickering light of the lamp they’d hung from one of the tent poles.  The sword calluses he’d had for a long time, ever since he started training with his ceremonial sword.  But there were new ones, too, between his fingers on his left hand from drawing the string of their bow, on his knuckles from fighting with Edna.  He flipped his hands over to examine the backs; more scars.  He wondered what it would have been like for other Shepherds, ones who didn’t have someone so close to help with their scars, both the visible and the invisible ones.  It was enough to make him feel a bit melancholy, and also to realize just how special it was for him and Mikleo to be on this journey together.   That was the point he should focus on here, he decided.

“Are you alright?” Mikleo asked, shaking Sorey from his small reverie.

“Hm, yes, I’m fine.  I was just thinking how lucky I am to have you.”

Mikleo huffed a small laugh and moved to work on a scar on Sorey’s lower back.  “I know, I know, you’re glad I’m helping with your itchy mess.”

“Well, yes, that too.  But I was thinking in more of a general sense.”

“How so?”

“I know I was stubborn at first, but now I don’t know how far I would have made it without you.  So, thank you.”

“A-ah, well,” Mikleo stumbled, and Sorey knew his face would be bright red.  But then he recovered and said, “You barely even made it out the gates of Elysia without me.  But, I understand.  You’re welcome.  Hopeless romantic.”

And yet, Sorey still felt Mikleo’s lips press lightly against the point where his neck met his spine.  He smiled, and then folded his arms under his head so he could rest his cheek on them. 

Mikleo’s hands returned to his task, pushing down the waistband of Sorey’s boxers to reach the far edges of a scar that ran nearly down to his tailbone.  Some nights, this would have excited him, but it had been a long day in the heat.  Now the air had cooled, and Mikleo’s fingers were cool, and the sand was soft under the blanket.  It would be a comfortable surface to fall asleep on.  Sorey let his eyes drift shut and fell into a space between waking and dozing while Mikleo worked on the scars on the backs of his legs.

“Alright, turn over,” Mikleo said, eventually.

Sorey lazily rolled onto his back, with only half a spare thought for the fact that he was probably getting salve all over the blanket.  He cracked his eyes open to see Mikleo leaning over him with the jar in one hand.  The lantern light behind his head lent him an ethereal, haloed glow, but cast his face in shadow.  It wasn’t enough to disguise the way the edges of his eyes and mouth tightened as he looked down. 

Sorey knew there were more scars on his front than his back.  His fighting style still trended too far toward the ‘charge in headfirst’ strategy, and that meant his torso was on the wrong end of a hellion’s sword, or claws, or artes more often than it probably should be.  And he knew how much it upset Mikleo.  “Hey, it’s okay,” he said, and reached one hand up to catch Mikleo’s wrist.  “I can manage my front if you’d like.”

Mikleo sighed and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before his face smoothed back out into neutrality.  “That’s not the problem.  I do want to help you.”  His fingers dipped into the container again for more salve and touched gently at a scar along Sorey’s shoulder and dragged down its length before massaging in light circles.

This close to his face, Sorey could smell the herbs used in the salve, the mint and camphor tickling at his nose.  That didn’t stop him from reaching up to catch Mikleo’s hand and bringing the back of it up to his lips for a kiss.  Someone must have been out there listening to his prayers, because he didn’t sneeze – this time.  Mikleo made a sound that was partway between a scoff and a small laugh at his antics, but it lifted his face further away from ‘affected neutrality’ and more toward normal.

Sorey let go of Mikleo’s hand, so it could work at the next scar, and asked, “What is the problem, then?”

“It’s the same as always; you make me worry.”

“Aww, you worry about me.”

“Well of course I do.  Humans are… fragile.”  He ignored Sorey’s scowl and continued, “And you, for one of those fragile humans, seem to have misplaced your sense of self-preservation.”  Mikleo emphasized his point with a poke at one of Sorey’s bigger scars on his side. 

The end result of this was not remorse, but Sorey’s face screwing up in an attempt not to react to the ticklish sensation.  “Oh no, no you don’t,” he started, trying to shift backwards on the blanket as Mikleo calmly set aside the jar of salve, mischief in his eyes.  But the tent was only so big, and there would be no end to the teasing if he managed to knock it over and tangle them up, all while wearing only his underwear.

“Maybe I need to get back at you for making me worry, then,” Mikleo said, and reached for Sorey’s sides in earnest.

Sorey was at the disadvantage, being on the ground.  He tried to get the leverage to flip them over, but Mikleo sat on his legs and put an end to any further attempts.  His arms fought a good fight, trying to both simultaneously swat away Mikleo’s hands, and get in a tickle or two of his own, but it was not meant to be.  In a matter of moments, Sorey was a giggling, writhing, red-faced mess.  The blanket twisted up beneath him, and sand was starting to get everywhere, just as predicted.  Thankfully, Mikleo put a halt to the fight when he noticed this occurring as well, before it could creep too far in and stick all over Sorey’s salve-coated back.

Once his legs were freed, Sorey sat up so Mikleo could rearrange the blanket, and stuck his tongue out.

“Very dignified, Lord Shepherd,” he said, and gave the straightened blanket one last, meticulous flick.  Then he used one hand to gently push at Sorey’s shoulder and guide him back to lying down.

There was a moment more of silence while Mikleo worked before Sorey said, “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“I always know that you are.  I just wish you would actually be more _careful_.”

“I try,” Sorey whined, “I really do think about being more careful, and…”

“And then as soon as you hit a battle, your body just takes over and you dash right in, I know,” Mikleo finished with a sigh.  “Maybe I coddled you too much when we used to spar.”

“Excuse you, what makes you think you could go harder on me?”

“Oh trust me, I could.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“We’ll just have to have a match one of these days then and see.  But not tonight.  You’re tired, and we should sleep.”

Mikleo capped the jar and moved to put it away in their bags.  Sorey sat up and started pulling on his pants and undershirt again.  He could feel the salve sticking to the fabric, but it was better than waking up to a fine coating of sand over his entire body the next morning.

“Sure, we can sleep, in a minute,” he said and beckoned Mikleo to sit in front of him again.  He took Mikleo’s hand in both of his and used his thumbs to press at the heel of his palm.  After a day of fighting, and cooking, and then working on Sorey’s scars, his hands deserved some special treatment.  The skin there was still smooth and perfect; seraph skin didn’t show old injuries or callouses, or other signs of a life lived in the same way his did.  But he wouldn’t have Mikleo any other way.

Sorey worked his way across his palm, and then along each finger.  In the process he smeared the last bit of excess salve onto his own hands, and certainly wouldn’t complain about it.  Once he was done, he lifted Mikleo’s hand to place a kiss in the center, and said, “Thank you, love.”  He took up the other hand and began to massage it as well.  Mikleo’s face kept up a light sheen of red, but his eyes were soft as he watched Sorey.

Once he was done, he kissed the center of Mikleo’s palm again, and then laced their fingers together.

“Okay, now you do actually need to sleep,” Mikleo said.

“Alright, fine.”

Mikleo changed into his sleep clothes while Sorey pulled out a pillow and an extra blanket from his pack.  He did not feel like putting in the effort to set up a full bedroll tonight.

Circlet and feathered earrings were gently removed, with light kisses for the skin beneath, and then packed away into the bags for safekeeping until the morning.  They curled into each other as they lay down on the shared pillow, and Sorey took Mikleo’s hand again between them.  Mikleo leaned down to kiss at the tiniest sliver of scar visible above Sorey’s collar, and then made a face at the taste of salve.  They both laughed softly, but it tapered off into the small sighs and hums of settling in for the night, and then, into the silence of sleep.


End file.
